


Sphallolalia

by Omano



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Flirting, Gen, M/M, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4828994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omano/pseuds/Omano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sphallolalia - Flirtatious talk that leads no where. </p><p> </p><p>"So what, do you come with the Mark? A direct hotline for booty calls to the Devil himself?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sphallolalia

**Author's Note:**

> AKA Why the hell do I make all the archangels drink with Dean nowadays?
> 
> Also I'd like to make a statement, that I have no f*cking idea how flirting works! Apparently I'm one of those kinds who might be constantly flirting, but never, ever recognizes it until someone hits them with a shovel in the face that leaves a mark spelling "I'm flirting with you, dumbass". So. Read this one with caution. I asked my boyfriend for advice, but I'm not sure it helped. 
> 
> I got this prompt on tumblr still in August, but since I just cannot write short things, it took me a while to complete this. At some point it won't seem to make much sense, but trust me, at some point in my head it all came together. What happend on the roan between my brain and fingers, well. That might be a different question. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy tho!

 

Dean stepped over the slumped, broken body as if it was nothing but a crack on the pavement. The last sparks of life still warmed the blood covering his hands like a pair of red and black gloves. But as he turned his back to this mouthy piece of dead shit even those little glimmers of a passed soul faded. Only the sour, spicy ecstasy of the kill remained in the violent forefront of his mind.

The famished throbbing of the Mark ceded to a soft pulse. He almost felt content.

Then suddenly he froze midstep. His limbs grew heavy, immersed in lead, while his own blood boiled. The world spun around with the familiar blond head and green shirt in its centre.

Lucifer looked at Dean with lazy, cold eyes. That gaze could count each rotting patch in Dean’s soul and slash them into million pieces to allow the cancer spread that much faster.

The glass in the Devil’s hand was empty. And yet, when he lowered it again from his mouth his lips glistened wet and with the blinding translucent colour of molten crystal. Or maybe it was just a few stray rays of his shattered grace blazing through his decaying vessel.

He looked just as he did right before Sam said _yes_ to him.

Dean felt electricity seep in through his fingertips and up his forearm. The Mark now was on fire, the fine hairs on his arm strained against the sleeves of his shirt.

He licked his lips, suddenly nervous.

“Have the angels fallen from Heaven?” he started with the corniest line that fitted their setting. He also might have hoped that it would also sting, but his voice sounded thick and atrociously loud in the small bar.

New sores opened on Lucifer’s temples as the muscles tightened around his eyes in an imperceptible sign of amusement.

“They have. Twice and then forever.” Lucifer answered on that infuriatingly soft voice of his that made Dean shudder. “But then you have fallen from greater glory still.”

“I didn’t know you were funny.”

Lucifer only curled an intimate little smile, violent like the edge of a knife.

“Why, the stars still shine on your skin. The Darkness cannot touch the stars.”

_Wouldn’t I know? Nothing takes the credit from us..._

At the heat suddenly climbing higher from his collar up to the very tip of his ears Dean could see the air shiver around his face. He averted his eyes, looked down and away, counting the pools of blood and the teeth lying about in them. He set his shoulders and head, stubborn and indignant at such embarrassment. However, as he turned his begrudging steps towards the shelves of liquor behind Lucifer he bumped into the edge of a table. A blasphemous curse fell from his lips, but as he turned to break the affronting furniture to splinters, he realized that it was nothing but a fine pile of white ashes on the floor.

Dean glanced up, cheeks still pink.

Lucifer looked back at him, cool, and with that angelic cat-like tilt to his head.  

“Can I offer you a drink?”

Now that Dean looked closer, there was a bottle of apple cider in the hide of Lucifer’s elbow. The red apple on the label was unmistakable and so, so surreal. He grinned.

“I can serve myself all right, thanks.”

With no more tables or chairs in the way, Dean could easily take the last few steps to the cabinet (though he almost tripped over the edge of the bar - that’s what the Devil’s eyes did to you). But there was no way to smother the belly-shaking scratchy laughter when he realized that on all the shelves equal bottles of cider were lined up, with the golden red apple smiling maliciously at him.

Dean turned back to Lucifer.

“I just can’t turn down the Devil’s deal now, can I?”

Lucifer slightly raised his eyebrows and offered a glass to Dean, identical to his own.

“There is a reason why your kind is past saving.”

“And why is that exactly?” Dean took the offered glass. Its cold burnt through the layer of dried blood and there were now no sense in his fingertips.

“Because I’m simply irrefutable.”

In that moment, caught in the headlights of Lucifer’s gaze, bright and destructive like a comet in a hail storm, Dean had no doubt that it was true.

He absentmindedly ran his thumb along the cut pattern of the glass. The slick scales of a snake rose and fell in an even pattern in his hold. And yet, he didn’t feel like dropping it.

“There’s only one shame in you joining the Dark Side.” Lucifer pursed his lips in thought, his forehead wrinkled in displeasure. “The cancer has scooped out and filled the green of your soul.” As he carefully placed his glass on the counter, he almost sounded truly regretful.

Warmth spread down Dean’s spine like thick paint spilled in a water bowl. The fading, curling swivels of the piercing sensation seeped into his vertebrae and the marrow of his ribs.

He grinned, his teeth glinting violent white. With his elbows on the counter he leant down so that his face was on the same level as Lucifer’s.

“So you mean to say, you have an itty bitty thing for these pretty eyes?” he taunted.

Without a moment of hesitation, Lucifer caught Dean’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted his head with such delicate force that it almost made tears blur his vision.

“Oh. Your eyes _are_ green. Never noticed.” Lucifer murmured softly. He studied Dean’s face so long and with such intensity that he almost made it believable he noticed it for the first time. As if he had never bothered to look at these mortal shells that were only made, at least in his view, to host much greater forces.

With great effort Dean pulled away. He needed at least this small distance  in hopes that this way he could bear the blinding brightness that was Lucifer.

“Tell me something,” Dean started, feeling the weight of the invisible drink in his glass. “Why would the Dark Overlord grace me with his presence?”

Lucifer’s eyebrows shot up. “I assume that means me?”

“As far as I know, you’re the Father of All Abominations.”

“There are several theories to argue that,” Lucifer said, contemplative. “Even I cannot decide if such title would rather fit my Father… or that inconvenience Adam. Eve might have a word in such matter.”

Dean made some bemused sound at the back of his throat. “Here I thought you’d gladly claim such titles.”

“I haven’t fathered anything in or beyond this realm… but if this was some attempt of yours at flirtation…”

“Or maybe you just don’t know how to take a compliment.”

“Oh, Dean, trust me, I know,” Lucifer drawled. “And I’m fairly sure this is not how it works.”

Dean averted his gaze, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“It’s not like I ever _tried_ to flirt with the Devil.”

Lucifer gently clinked their glasses together. Dean could feel he was smiling.

“I’m supposed to be locked up under 600 seals, tearing each other atom for atom with my most favourite brother… You know, I think, I do have some part of Michael in me. It’s not that easy to separate all that light and darkness when you try to make yourself whole again.”

Dean only scoffed. “I won’t start your great escape this time.”

“But of course. You aren’t much of the Righteous Man anymore, are you?”

“Right. So what, do you come with the Mark? A direct hotline for booty calls to the Devil himself?”

“Maybe,” Lucifer winked. “Or maybe you’re also losing your mind. But then, I’d wonder why would you even desire _my_ companionship.”

Dean opened his mouth. Inside of him hot and cold collided and formed the cruellest of blizzards that was about to tear him asunder. He wanted to demand an answer to the opposite of the question. Because seeing his eyes turn black, trembling for the kill, cold-headed and ruthless absolutely didn’t mean he was losing his mind.

“ _Why would you seek out mine?_ ” he wanted to ask Lucifer; pester him until he yielded and answered, because above all Dean needed _answers_. But not to the question to whether he could ever stop his thirst to kill.

Because it didn’t exist as such.

The blood on his hands was nothing but an illusion. Lucifer playing with his perception of reality.

The drums in his head started up a steady march. They were closing in on him. He could feel his skull resonate to the rhythm.

His eyes focused one last time - his vision was filled with white, and ice, and blood-splattered winter-sky.

“Can’t wait to meet you again, Dean,” Lucifer breathed into his face.

 

Dean woke with his heart hammering out of his chest against the dusty carpet of the motel room.

Quickly, uncaring for the nausea trying to topple the world over, he pushed himself up on all fours. He stared at his hands. Calloused, scarred, but they were covered in nothing but cold sweat. No sight of blood.

 _Thank fuck_.

Even the Mark on his forearm was slumbering, sated, miraculously so.

Dean frowned.

The scent of evergreen and frost still lingered on his skin...

 

  
  



End file.
